


One and Done

by just_another_classic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, F/M, Mild Smut, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_classic/pseuds/just_another_classic
Summary: Years ago and hundreds of miles away from one another, both Emma Swan and Killian Jones' dreams died in a single night. Years later, their paths cross, and those very crushed dreams may be what brings them together.





	One and Done

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I can't believe I'm actually writing something. I told Ro this would be a basketball fic, and it's only marginally that so apologizes in advance.
> 
> A few warnings, there is some very mild smut and some mild descriptions of compound fractures in this story. Be warned!

The first time she meets Killian Jones, they’re at a cookout held in a mutual friend’s backyard. He has a nice laugh and an even nicer smile, but as they talk over craft beer and hot dogs, she can’t help but think about how she knows of him, about how almost everyone interested in collegiate sports knows his name and why almost everyone else doesn’t.

She’d been in high school back then, with big dreams of college and a future and making a name for herself. She’d been sitting on the couch drinking lukewarm beer, her boyfriend’s arm wrapped around her as he and his roommates cheered on their school. It had been Storybrooke’s first time making it into the NCAA Tournament, and even though no one really expected them to win, spirits had been high.    
  
Emma recalls how they commentators spent a lot of time saying Killian Jones’ name, throwing out words like “lottery” and “one-and-done”, terms she didn’t understand that Neal seemed to. Neal didn’t like him, that much had been obvious, his insults growing more cutting as the game wore on and more alcohol coursed through his veins. She’d smiled and nodded, not wanting to disagree. She’d been “lucky” to be there anyway, still more than a little bit in awe that a college guy would be interested in her, so she held her tongue. (She doesn’t hold her tongue anymore.) 

She remembers the moment it happened, doubts she could ever forget. It’s one of those moments that’s forever seared into her mind, watching him jump upupup, then come tumbling downdowndown. 

She’s a cop now. She’s been well exposed to blood and bone and the many traumas the human body can endure, but that’s now. Prior to that moment, she’d never actually seen bone slice through skin, not to someone living and breathing and in considerable pain. Neal had cheered, said something about being “a regular guy now”. Emma wishes then that she had taken it as a sign of things come, but she’d been sixteen and naive, and she’d just watch a man’s career end before her eyes.

Looking at him now, she can hardly tell that he’d suffered such a traumatic injury on a national scale. The only tell is that he spends so little time talking about himself and instead peppers her with questions about her own life.

“Have you always lived in Boston?” 

She shakes her head. “No. Only for the past few years, and that’s because David told me there was an opening at his precinct.” 

“Where were you before?”

“Here, there, everywhere.” She doesn’t like talking about her past that much, in inability to find a stable home forever a sore spot. “Name a place, and I probably lived there.”

“Djibouti.”

“What the-- excuse me?”  
  
“Djibouti. It’s a country in the Horn of Africa. You said name a place, and I did.” His eyes sparkle and his brows dance when he says this. It’s infuriating. It’s also endearing. “I take it that you haven’t lived there.”

“You never would have struck me as someone so pedantic,” she says, trying to frown but utterly failing. 

“I’m full of surprises, love,” he tells her, and his eyes promise something both dangerous and thrilling. But then he shrugs and the moment is lost. “Truth be told, I’m an AP history teacher. Comes with the territory.”

So this is where dreams go to die. High School.

As the afternoon wears on, Emma is surprised that she spends much of the event talking to him. She manages to redirect the conversation away from her, and he seems to respect that. They talk movies and museums, Boston traffic and the insane cost of living. What they don’t talk about is sports.

She tells him about Henry, and he doesn’t blink, but instead takes it in stride. She explains that her son’s favorite subject in English and he prefers not to do math.

“He still gets good grades, though,” she boasts, unable to hide the pride in her voice. No matter how many things she’s done wrong in her life, her son is proof that she can do at least one thing right. “And teachers love him. Really, you should be disappointed he’s not in your district. He’d be your favorite student, no doubt.” 

“He sounds like a great kid.” Killian Jones cranes his head, turning to survey the crowded yard. “Is he here?”  


Emma shakes her head. “He’s in New York. It’s his week with his dad.”

“A pity. I would have liked to meet him.” 

Emma realizes in that moment that Killian Jones has passed a test she never intended to give.

It’s late by the time they leave the cookout, together but not. Killian had taken the subway in, and Emma offers to drive him back to his place.

“Nothing good happens on the train this late at night,” she says, “and, besides, an Uber would be ungodly expensive.”

She ignores the suggestive expressions Ruby throws her way, or the cautious one on David's face. As much as she’d like to pretend they were reading too much into her interactions with Killian Jones, the truth is that they’re not. She knows where this night is heading. Henry is with Neal, and she’s feeling good as much as she doesn’t want to spent the night alone in her empty apartment. 

She’s pretty sure Killian feels the same way, and because of that, Emma feels no surprise when he invites her up for a nightcap and he shows no shock when she accepts.

Both her shirt and bra are on the floor before they even make it to the bedroom. She notices the scars on his wrist, but pretends not to, and it’s easy enough when he peels off his own shirt. He no longer has physique of the athlete he used to be, as to be expected, but he is toned well enough. Emma enjoys watching the way his muscles flex as he climbs over. 

Like most first encounters, the experience is somewhat awkward, however there is a finesse to his movements that tells her that he knows what he’s doing, and she learns he’s a breast man based on much attention he pays her chest, licking and twisting. When it becomes too much, she urges him down, intrigued to feel just what his tongue can deliver. It takes some time, but he follows her instructions, and that is something she appreciates just as much as the way his tongue laps at he clit and his fingers curl inside of her.

He’s smug when she finishes, less so when she wraps her hand around his length and begins to move. It doesn’t take long for him to reach for a condom, and even less time to tear open the foil packet and sheath himself. Emma gasps when he slides into her. Though she isn’t the biggest fan of the feel of sex with a condom, it’s far better than any of the alternative so she focuses instead of the pleasant stretch of the cock and the way his pelvis presses against hers when he slides into her again and again. 

After he comes, they take turns in the bathroom. He beckons her to join him back bed, offering an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt as pajamas. Emma has an excuse on the tip of her tongue. She’s normally not one to stay the night, but something inside her to accept. It’s only after she’s dressed that she notices the word “Wildcats” printed across in blue block lettering, and her stomach twists.

In bed, they spoon her back to his front. As she lays over his bicep, Emma can’t help but trace the silver scars that adorn his wrist. 

“Sports injury,” he tells her, his voice soft.

She could play dumb, pretend that she knows nothing about him. It would be easy. Emma Swan has never done anything the easy way.

“I know.”

Killian tenses. “So you have heard of me.”

“Back then, when it happened, I was dating a guy who went to Storybrooke. I watched it on TV.”

“Oh.”

“I’m pretty sure that was the night Henry was conceived too. I think that’s why I remember it so well, because everything changed that night. I just didn’t realize it at the time.” She winces once finishes, not wanting to actually downplay his trauma. She hopes he didn’t take it that way.

“Well, I guess something good came out of that night.” He doesn’t pull away from her, but Emma can feel the rigidity of the muscles. “Is that why you came home with me tonight?”

“No,” she tells him. She thinks she should be offended by the question, but she isn’t. Instead, she finds herself hoping he believes her.

“They would, you know, right after. Plenty of pity fucks for the sad, broken basketball star.” Killian’s voice is more sad than angry, and Emma understands what he’s telling her isn’t to hurt her, but instead his own way of venting, of working through the pain. “In Lexington, when you wear the jersey, they treat you like a god. All the girls want you, and the guys want to be you.”

“And after you hurt yourself, that went away?”

“No, actually. They don’t forget you there. Not even the walks on, some of them still do camps even. But that’s why I had to leave.”

“Because you didn’t want to be reminded of what you lost,” she finishes for him. She considers turning to face him, but doesn’t. It’s easier this way, not having to having to look into one another’s eyes and make their deepest confessions. “Before I lived in Boston, I lived in Portland.”

“Oregon?”

“Maine. I moved there after I finished high school, but before I had Henry. I told myself that it was because Portland likely had better opportunities for a single mother like me, but really it was to get away from Storybrooke and everything.” Neal had wanted nothing to do with her after she’d told him about her pregnancy. He’d been pissed she refused to abort. It was only when Henry had been a toddler that Neal had waltzed back into his life, and that had only been because of his fiance-now-wife Tamara. 

She’s not sure why she’d telling him all of this. It had taken years before she’d gotten the nerve to tell everything to Mary Margaret, but here in Killian’s arms, the words fall easy. Maybe it’s because he understands. Maybe it’s because his life also irrevocably changed that day. She’s not sure why, but what she does know that in this moment, she feels safe. 

He must feel the same way, because he whispers, “What kindred spirits are we.”

It takes everything in her not to laugh, because he sounds so incredibly poetic, and she’s the exact opposite. “I was going to say we’re both fucked up, but we’ll go with that.”

“Yeah, we’ll go with that.”

That don’t say anything after that. Slowly but surely, Emma finds herself drifting off the sleep, and she is welcomed by peaceful dreams.


End file.
